


oceans know no bounds

by were



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Financial Issues, Jean-centric, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash, Song Drabble, implications of a not-so-good upbringing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 20:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/were/pseuds/were
Summary: Jean never really looks at the world beyond a few boundaries he's made for himself. Jeremy just really wants to know what time it is.





	oceans know no bounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LI0NH34RT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LI0NH34RT/gifts).



> This is the first of a song drabble exchange I'm doing with Janna. Her song prompt was Billie Eilish's [Ocean Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=viimfQi_pUw).
> 
> This isn't beta'd. Every mistake is my own.

Jean works at the dining hall in the south campus. He picks up prehistoric trays, frayed from their factory colours, slathered with leftovers that could easily pass as mucus. Tosses them into a cart, pushes his way pass swinging kitchen doors into a world of metal surfaces and oily exhaustion.

He takes a smoke after his shifts, out in the back, next to the garbage. Snow would start to fall slow and he wouldn't bother looking up. He keeps his gaze fixed on the asphalt, thinking over his essay on French decadence literature. 

His duffel bag is heavy with library books worn and smelling of mould. The zipper is broken, so he carries it squeezed tightly between his arm and body. As he leaves the dining hall he shovels a meal into his tupper and walks out, eyes on the cracks in the sidewalk, intent on locking himself up in his room and plunging into his essay until his next shift or sleep, whichever decides to come first.

It doesn't work that way exactly. He runs into someone going out. 

"You've the time?" the guy is pointing at a bare wrist outstretched from the sleeve of a khaki coat. "I lost my phone. Haven't had a watch in ages." 

Jean doesn't have either one. He moves to go around the guy. "There's a sundial a couple yards away," he says, out of courtesy. 

"What?" Jean hears when he's a couple of steps away. He pretends he's out of earshot.

 

 

Jean wakes up in the middle of the night. Sweat trickling down his forehead despite the cold air, his scarf tangled dangerously around his neck. He grabs his coat and wraps himself in, sits at the edge of his bed, looking out his window, ignoring the after-images in the corners of his vision. Ghostly reminders of a nightmare he must have been having. 

He stays that way even though his feet and kneecaps turn cold. The sky turns light and the sun stretches its rays and he wonders if he'd slept two hours or three.

His bandaged fingers feel numb by the time he's doing his next shift. And when he's done he takes out his pack of cigs and realises he's run out. He considers for a moment, but decides he'll have to do without. 

He backs out his usual route and runs into the same guy in the khaki coat, only this time surrounded by other people. He acknowledges the hem of the coat, sees ripped jeans and a glimpse of skin, walks straight pass them, shoving his cold hands into his pockets. His duffel knocks into someone but he doesn't bother to say sorry, doesn't honour anyone with a glance.

 

Jean drops in at the registrar's. A woman behind a glass pane pulls out his file and she scans it, looking like she'd rather expire any time soon. His GPA should be all right, she grumbles, studying him half-heartedly. The stipend will come in next Monday, she adds. He stares at the organized chaos on her desk. She marks a tick next to his name on a list and asks for the next student, without even gesturing a bye. He pretends he's a ghost and drifts off towards the library, skipping lunch.

 

He's nose deep into a yellow book probably the same age as his great grandmother when he feels someone approach.

"Hi."

Jean keeps reading. It's a library, not a chat-room, last he checked. He dog-ears the page and flips.

"I – well, you dropped this. It's a library book, right? Thought I might find you here—"

"Ssh! No talking!" A passing librarian urges. Jean could feel the guy wince. He doesn't look up but does say an almost silent _thanks_ and glances at the book. It's a Baudelaire. He looks at his duffel bag accusingly and guesses he might have to invest in a zipper or a bag. Whichever is cheaper. Losing a library book doesn't sound good for his budget.

"Yeah. Well, no problem. I, um, I was wondering, well, I'm—"

"Get a cubicle or shut up," someone two seats down says. The guy goes silent, and after a moment, leaves because Jean doesn't, _will never_ look up.

 

Jean's pen runs out of ink in the middle of class. He looks at the board, at the powerpoint slides, looks at all the notes he's going to have to commit to memory instead. But there's a throbbing pain behind his eyes, and his feet are cold from sitting still for nearly three hours. 

He almost flinches when he feels a tap on his shoulder and sees a pen being held out to the right of his head. He turns a little. He recognizes the bare wrist attached to the hand that's attached to the pen. 

He doesn't take the pen. After perhaps a few long minutes where he's entirely unable to take in the lecture, it is retracted.

Behind him he can hear a girl whispering _told you he's unfriendly, barely even acknowledges that people exist around him. Why do you bother?_

 

The professor wants Jean to peer tutor a student of his in French. Jean refuses, doesn't bother explaining why. He goes down the stone steps out of the building and his breath turns into white curls in the cold air. He tries to shake off the hollow feeling that he's turned down something that would have helped him step forward, open up. He wishes he had a few cigs on him, double checks his pockets. Someone approaches him.

"You're Jean, right?"

Jean makes the mistake of turning around and looking up.

Bare wrists, khaki coat, beauty marks trailing up a neck, a loose wool scarf around it. He's shorter than Jean thought.

"Hi," the guy says. "I'm Jeremy. Or Jere. Just call me Jere. I was wondering – do you maybe have notes from last class?"

Jean looks away and shoves his hands in his pockets. "There're about a hundred students in that class. Give or take five."

A moment of silence. "Um."

"Lots to ask from," Jean clarifies. "I'm sure somebody is selfless enough to help," Jean walks away, expecting Jeremy or Jere to not follow. Jeremy does follow. Physically.

"Well, I don't know anyone else," Jeremy says. 

"You don't know me either."

"You're hard to forget. You told me to use a sundial?"

"Remembering does not equate knowing."

"Fair, but _knowing_ also has to go through some sort of remembering stage. What can you know if you can't remember?"

"To breathe."

Jeremy breaks out in laughter, unexpectedly. Jean turns around and there's a comfortable distance between the two that makes him settle his eyes right on the other's face.

A toothy grin, sun dust across the nose bridge, high cheekbones. Eyes an odd colour that reminds Jean of napalm skies and cyan oceans, the way they stared back at him with kind intensity. Jeremy's gaze stays connected for a few heartbeats, and it's almost impossible to look away. 

"Hi," Jeremy says again, almost breathlessly, and he takes a few steps forward and extends a hand. Jean doesn't take it, but he lets his eyes drop to the bare wrist. He considers walking away again, but he doesn't quite know why he's hesitating to do so.

Jeremy retracts. "Baby steps. But well, just so you won't misunderstand – I'd really like to be friends. Not for your notes. The notes are an excuse."

Jean digs in his bag and produces his blue notebook. "Here. Just take it. Leave me alone."

Jeremy smiles sadly. "You do know I have to return this to you? Eventually? Once I've finished fawning over your handwriting and organized notes? And the way you write your s's?"

Jean stalks off. 

"See you in class," Jean says, half a beat later, and wonders why he's able to vividly picture Jeremy's radiant smile and ocean eyes in his mind.

He keeps that a secret, smiles briefly, and doesn't look back.

**Author's Note:**

> loosely inspired from watching college!Lip from Shameless S4, by the by.


End file.
